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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:35:52 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:35:52 GMT -5
**Jami
Tears are gathering in the corners Cheeks a baby's pink Determined lips hold straight
She thinks of you Tries to conjure memories Giddy squeaks of childhood laughter Mountain-high adolescent embraces The whirling colors of yesterday
She looks forward Future summers sizzle out Her hopes fold in upon themselves Like your long, strong legs When the men came to take you
Eyes close like your doors Shutting the sadness inside Bottom lip gives in
Geauga Lake Amusement Park 1887-2007
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:36:15 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:36:15 GMT -5
**Tara
My Maybelline marbles, always observing, always collecting.
They scanned the pages of A. A. Milne until symbols turned into stories. They collected dust and sand from the windy wild pony beach in Ocean City They were there as he dropped to one knee in the rear yard, lit by the orage driveway security light. All the back porch swings, green bean vines, ambulance lights, piano keys, pepperoni pizzas, and carved pumpkins reflected in their humble gaze.
And when the world grows blurry, and shapes no longer have meaning, I will take these marbles with me when I am tucked within the earth
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:36:49 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:36:49 GMT -5
**Lisa
Michael rolled over and the searing pain in his ribs jolted him awake. He could hear his mother singing as she puttered around the kitchen and he wanted to scream in anger, but knew he never would. He had mastered the fine art of internal outbursts a long time ago. As he pulled back the covers he noticed how swollen his wrist was but from experience he knew it was not broken. Welt marks lined his legs and made it hard to move. Using his good hand, he held his ribs and forced himself to stand. He flinched from the pain but relaxed a little when he realized he could walk without a limp. His mother worked hard to keep all the evidence hidden and a limp was not easy to hide.
Michael dressed gingerly and made his way to the breakfast table. His father sat reading the paper never even acknowledging his presence. His mother however was a bundle of joy as she kissed him on the cheek asking how he slept. Her guilt swept away as easy as the crumbs on the floor. He ate in silence then headed to brush his teeth before going out to catch the bus.
On days like today, his backpack felt heavier, the walk farther and the ride longer. By the time he got to his classroom, he was exhausted. Mrs. Addison his second grade teacher was across the hall so he slipped into the room and went straight to his desk. He bowed his head working hard to block out all the sounds of happiness. The sound that made most people happy made his blood boil with jealousy.
When Mrs. Addison passed out the pop quiz, he made a mistake. Without thinking, he lifted his bad wrist and cringed. She saw the swelling and looked him straight in the eyes asking how it happened. Normally he looked away when this happened but today he took a chance. He searched her eyes looking for compassion. Although he would never have the guts to tell the truth, he hoped she saw the pain and pleading in his eyes. She looked away without saying another word as she dropped the quiz and continued with the day. Michael never saw the pity in her eyes. His heart dropped as he realized that he could count Mrs. Addison out too.
His pain worsened with every hour, and when the bell rang to signal the end of the day, he was both happy and sad. Happy he would now be able to go lay down but sad he would have to do it at home. He gathered his backpack and started for the door. Mrs. Addison stopped him asking to talk. His heart leaped with hope. Maybe she would save him after all.
That thought was shattered as the principle entered the room followed by his mom. His mom wore a smile as she once again kissed him on the cheek allowing only him to see the anger in her eyes. The adults talked for an hour before the principle was satisfied with her answers. His mother had convinced them that he was just a young clumsy boy. The fake smile stayed on his mother’s lips until they reached the car. Pulling out of the lot her eyes told him that tomorrow it would be even harder to hide the evidence.
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:37:26 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:37:26 GMT -5
**Dan
*Mirrors
I was only three or four when my grandpa was buried. I don't remember the funeral or how my family acted, but one part of it has always stood out to me.
I noticed that day, the casket my grandfather was lying in had a mirror on the inside of the lid above his head. I remember asking my grandmother about it and the odd answer that I never understood.
She told me that my grandpa always had a saying. "If you put a mirror in your casket, you can spend eternity admiring the man you became." She said that my grandpa deserved the mirror in his casket, because of how great of a man he was.
Now, as I lay here, plugged into all these machines, watching my loved ones come and tell me how much they loved me, I wonder if I should have a mirror in my casket. Is my life worth looking back on?
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:37:58 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:37:58 GMT -5
**Jackie (Writer of the Week)
Where tangled black forest surrenders to empty white desert
inviting green foothills lead past unstable yellow cliffs.
There you'll find me, hiding.
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:41:25 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:41:25 GMT -5
**Natalie
I am my father’s daughter the tip of my nose, crest of my lips, slant of my eyes I am the battle scars of generations past a thin white line above my top lip where the rocks once entered--a juvenile bike ride meets freshly poured gravel I am the birthmark on my left cheek my under-formed snaggle-tooth and the single dark hair on my chin -- the one which caused an obsession with plucking…everything I am my mother’s daughter the creases in my forehead, water released curls, and “the stare” I am the adult acne the sun spots that gather where my eyes meet my nose and the eye lashes that brush against the frames of my sunglasses I am the mole in the bend of my left arm, the one in the shape of a heart I am my grandma Eva’s boobs my great aunt Ada’s miss shaped hips my grandma Cynthia’s green eyes I see Irish, breathe Arabic, and smile German I am the mutt that prefers to stand on the right side in photographs the whitest black girl in the room and the one who stares at her own reflection not to see herself but to find the pieces that she carries of the ones that told her it’s okay to be proud of your imperfections because they were given to you I am the recipient of organ, eye, skin, blood, laugh and love donations I’m thankful that the transplants took
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:42:14 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:42:14 GMT -5
**Lynn (Writer of the Week)
*Untitled
Hello, vanity, you old double-edged sword!" I mumble as I stare at my triple duty baby factory of a belly and think of a 10 lb. 10 oz. bundle of joy, cursed genetics, Jabba the Hutt and....
"Why are Hershey's so irresistible? Maybe I should make a go at the gluten free thing again..."
"My eyes are up here," I interrupted.
I look up Meeting hazel light (It's lovely. I take in a surprised breath.) and resigned disappointment
Then...
After I remember that I've spent years deliberately looking elsewhere the joy returns.
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Week 5
May 12, 2014 16:44:36 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 12, 2014 16:44:36 GMT -5
**Zach
*thumbtack
I want to love more that I want to be loved, and I want a bright red thumbtack to pin my eye-color in place.
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Week 5
May 26, 2014 19:52:13 GMT -5
Post by A Right To Write on May 26, 2014 19:52:13 GMT -5
Prompt 5:
Look yourself in the eyes for three minutes
Write
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